


everything is a target, says the hunter

by sparxwrites



Series: peace beneath the city [6]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Character Study, Fae & Fairies, Hunters & Hunting, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 18:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3620346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Will is seven, his father comes home with a dead deer and an empty shotgun. It’s huge, so much bigger than the rabbits or small birds Will’s accustomed to, and he cries for it – for its liquid, empty eyes and its soft muzzle and the warmth still in its skin – and runs small, shaking fingers through its soft fur.</p><p>“If it was too slow to get away, I was doing it a kindness,” says his father, not unkindly. “It couldn’t get away. Too weak to live. If I hadn’t picked it off, something or someone else would. At least I made it quick.” He smiles. “It was a noble death.”</p><p>(In which Will's life seems destined to move in circles, and he finds it difficult to mind.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything is a target, says the hunter

**Author's Note:**

> **donotchoosesidesyet asked:** UMY, [The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then paints the targets around them. The trees imagine they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The arrows: they have no imagination. // The hunter’s son watches the hunter. The hunter paints more rings on his glasses. "Everything is a target," says the hunter. "No matter where you look." The hunter’s son says nothing, and closes his eyes.] Siken's "The Stag and the Quiver." It seemed apt.
> 
> this is a weird sort of fic, i guess, but then the prompt was unusual so. basically the first thing that's felt natural to write in weeks so that's nice. **warnings** for animal death and fae manipulation.

 When Will is seven, his father comes home with a dead deer and an empty shotgun. It’s huge, so much bigger than the rabbits or small birds Will’s accustomed to, and he cries for it – for its liquid, empty eyes and its soft muzzle and the warmth still in its skin – and runs small, shaking fingers through its soft fur.

“If it was too slow to get away, I was doing it a kindness,” says his father, not unkindly. “It couldn’t get away. Too weak to live. If I hadn’t picked it off, something or someone else would. At least I made it quick.” He smiles. “It was a noble death.”

His mother picks him up, holds him close and shushes him gently. “It’s natural selection, sweetie,” she says, wipes the tears from his cheeks with the back of one finger. “Where do you think the ham in your sandwiches comes from, hmm?”

Later, he sits and watches his father skin and gut the deer. The fur peels back, muscle and fat glistening beneath the softness, and he stares, transfixed. When his father slits the stomach and the guts fall out in wet loops, they are still warm.

-

When Will is eleven, his father takes him hunting. The gun is too big for him, too heavy for his clumsy hands as he takes it from his father, lets his father position it in his arms and tilt the barrel towards the rabbit. “Focus,” he says, whispers close in Will’s ear and holds him by the shoulders. “Look at the prey. Paint a target on it with your eyes.”

Will pulls the trigger.

The recoil is too hard for him, nearly sends him stumbling back and punches a bruise into the soft meat of his shoulder, and Will squeezes his eyes shut against the violence and the noise of it. When he opens his eyes, the rabbit is dead.

“Congratulations!” says his father, taking the gun from his unresisting hands, touching Will’s shoulder and ruffling his hair. “You did well – first time too! Must be beginner’s luck.” He smiles, claps Will on the shoulder, and goes to retrieve the rabbit.

Will stares and stares at the still scrap of fur on the ground, bright blood warm and liquid-wet on its nose and light brown fur blending into the leaf litter. When his father reaches it, grabs it by the back legs and hoists it proudly into the air, he looks away, and fights the urge to close his eyes.

-

When Will is twenty, he runs to the city. The countryside is stifling him, choking him, and he feels pressed up against the inside of his skin like liquid electricity, wires warm and coiling through his bones and down his spine. He needs to get out, to find somewhere with more of the same bright, humming comfort that vibrates from his phone and his laptop and the small radio-clock he bought when he was thirteen.

His parents wave as the train pulls out the station, and he doesn’t need to look back to know that the expression on their faces is relief.

-

When Will is twenty and one month, he stumbles into Kirin’s shop, the city a scream in his head through the six hours of sleep in the last five days, the three cups of coffee, the painkillers, the fumbled-together protection charms. He barely knows who he is any more, just knows pain through every inch of him and bright, electric confusion

Kirin sits him down and gives him tea that tastes of honey and lemon, liquid and warm against his chilled fingers and sore throat. He touches Will’s shoulders, and his hair, calls him _lost thing_ – his hands are soft and warm, skin work-rough and magic like a weighted blanket.

He lifts the weight of the city from Will’s curved spine and Will falls, ever so slightly, in love.

-

When Will is twenty and a half, Xephos takes him to one side after dinner. They stand in the hall, Honeydew washing dishes in the kitchen and Lalna escaped up to his room, and the silence stretches thin between them until it breaks.

“Will,” Xephos says, voice warm and eyes wide, liquid, earnest. “Will, you… you need to stop going to see Kirin.”

They’ve had this conversation before. Will stands there, stares at a point somewhere over his shoulder, and says nothing. There’s nothing left to say.

“I know you think he- _cares_ for you, or looks out for you, or he’s helping you, but…” Xephos sighs, drags a hand through his hair. “Will, the fae don’t care for mortals. They’re not _capable_ of it. They can’t be friends, or- or lovers. Kirin _can’t_ see you as anything other than prey, you have to understand that. Everything is a target to him. _You’re_ a target.”

Will says nothing – just fights the urge to closes his eyes, and instead watches the way Xephos’ shoulders hunch with the weight of the the silence.

-

When Will is twenty and a half and one day, he lies in bed with a hand over his heart. His room’s dark – as dark as anything ever gets in the city, streetlights through the blinds and a digital clock and the slow up-down of his laptop’s power light – and his eyes glow in it, magic and neon fused into his irises.

The left side of his chest is tender, skin soft and the flesh beneath over-sensitive and too-ripe with bruising. He presses down, feels the dull ache flare to sharpness and pain, trace electric flickers through his nerves to the nape of his neck, to his brain. His mind flickers crossed-wires and broken, sparking synapses, and the gasp that leaves his mouth is not one of pain.

 _Natural selection_ , says his mother. _Had it coming_ , says his father, and _too weak to live_ and _doing it a kindness_. And Xephos, with his warm voice and liquid eyes, says, _everything is a target_.

( _Lost thing_ , whispers Kirin, honey-lemon safety and warmth and a gunshot in the still night.)

Will touches a hand to the antlers wreathed around his heart like thorns, a bruise-tattoo against his skin, and closes his eyes. His fingers trace bullseye-circles over it as he wonders if his, too, will be a noble death.

 


End file.
